That I May Cease To Be
by cousinjean
Summary: *Complete!* After withstanding the First's attempts to break him, Spike suddenly finds himself living William's life as if he'd never died; but how did he get there, and why? And does this mean he'll never see Buffy again? (6/6)
1. Default Chapter

Title: That I May Cease To Be  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Spoilers: Right up through "Never Leave Me."  
  
Summary: After withstanding the First's attempts to break him, Spike suddenly finds himself living William's life as if he'd never died; but how did he get there, and why? And does this mean he'll never see Buffy again?  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon gave us Spike and for that I will ever be his bitch.  
  
Archiving: Please do not archive until it's finished.  
  
Feedback: cousinjean@hotmail.com  
  
A/N: The title is from a John Keats poem, _When I have fears that I may cease to be_. Big love and gratitude to all of my beta readers and fact checkers: Abby, adjrun, AurelioZen, DevilPiglet, Enkeli and fenwic. More big love to everybody who yelled at me to turn this into a whole fic even after I swore I'd never write fanfic again. Peer pressure works, y'all! If you like this story you can check out my others at http://dancing-lessons.org, or my FF.net profile if that's where you're reading this.  
  
*******  
Part One  
*******  
  
He felt cold. Strange, that. He was cold by default, so he never really noticed it. To be warm, that was the anomaly. The thing to be noticed. Savored. But now he was so cold. At least he'd finally stopped shivering. Maybe. Couldn't really tell any more, truth be told. No ... he'd stopped. Shivering took more energy than he had to give.  
  
The chill was just an extension of the darkness. The others had taken all the light with them and left him there, hanging by his straps. He had no more blood to rush to his head, but he still felt woozy. Weak. Lifeless. This was what dying felt like, some part of him remembered. This was what those girls had felt, before he'd buried them. At least they'd gotten to finish. No such mercy for him. For him this feeling would go on forever.  
  
She kept telling him that. Coming to him, long after they'd left. The room was too dark for even him to make out anything but black. But she brought her own light. She glowed from within as she told him, softly, that nobody would come for him. That even if they did, the room was hidden; they wouldn't find him. But they weren't coming, she said. They believed he'd gone willingly. That he'd turned against them. And if they did find him, they would kill him.  
  
That was what she said, but he knew. He knew she wasn't the real one. He was on to this one's tricks. Wouldn't be fooled again. Her voice, nearby, calling his name ... he didn't know if that was real. He wanted it to be. But even if it was, he had no voice to answer. Probably all in his head, anyway.  
  
In the basement -- the other basement. That had been real. It -- she'd -- oh, God. She could see him now. She could see ... and she ...  
  
He felt himself shaking again. Not shivering, though. The moisture running down his nose wasn't blood. Sod it all, tears. He'd done his best not to holler while being sliced and diced, or when that thing had come crawling up out of the ground, unleashed by his own blood. He'd kept mum whenever the other one taunted him, tried to get a rise out of him. But now ...  
  
She believed in him. And all he could do was hang here and weep like a bloody useless git, praying she believed enough to come and save him.  
  
"Spike!"  
  
Her voice again. Sounded close, right outside. He tried to draw air into his dead lungs so he could call out to her, but it only made him cough. "Here," he finally managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm here." But her voice moved away. "Buffy ..."  
  
He couldn't hold out much longer. Oblivion threatened to overtake him, and he wanted so badly to let it. But he had to fight, to hold on. She'd expect that of him, and he couldn't let her down. Not now. Not after ... everything. She would come for him. Just in the nick of time, as she always did. He knew this, believed it. Believed in her. He'd always believed in her.  
  
Footsteps sounded somewhere close by, sending a surge of hope through him. A door scraped open, and the room flooded with a blinding light. It washed over him along with relief. He felt hands on him, heard a voice calling his name. But it was the wrong voice. The wrong name. The hands were pushing against him. As he tugged at his straps he realized he was lying on his back.  
  
"William! William, can you hear me? Open your eyes, son."  
  
The light faded to a tolerable level and he did as he was told. As his eyes adjusted he squinted up at the slightly blurred face of a middle-aged man in a white coat. Something familiar about him. A woman stood beside him, wearing an old-fashioned nurse's uniform. Spike tilted his head and stared up at her.  
  
The man in white turned to her. "His glasses," he prompted. She produced a pair of wire frames from her smock and placed them on Spike's face. Suddenly his vision cleared up. "Is that better?" the man asked.  
  
Spike nodded, and continued to take in his surroundings. He lay strapped to a bed, one of a long row of beds in a white room lit by gaslight. "Wh ... where's Buffy?"  
  
"William, do you know where you are? Do you remember how you got here?"  
  
He shut his eyes and tried to figure it all out. "I ... they cut me ..."  
  
"Yes. Whoever attacked you did a horrendous job of cutting your throat. They found you bleeding in the stalls. You're fortunate that Tom Hobson likes to go riding at night, else you'd have likely been dead by the time they found you."  
  
"What are you ... I _am_ dea--" And then it hit him. He wasn't cold anymore. Air flowed in and out of his lungs of its own accord. And his heart ... oh, God. It was beating.  
  
The man smiled kindly and shook his head. "Indeed, William, you're very lucky to be alive. Of course, the police sent someone over to speak with you if you're feeling up to it."  
  
Spike stared up at him for a long moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed.  
  
***  
  
To be continued ...  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Title: That I May Cease To Be  
  
by cousinjean  
  
**************  
PART TWO  
**************  
  
"William?"  
  
"Oh, you're good," Spike said as his laughter died down. "Gotta hand it to you, mate, this is your best mindfuck yet."  
  
The nurse gasped. "Doctor!"  
  
"Please prepare a sedative," the doctor told her, "and tell the constable there will be no interview tonight." He turned back to Spike. "William, do you even know who I am?"  
  
"I give sod all who you are. Or what. I'm on to you now. You're not gonna make me hurt them! Not anymore."  
  
"Hurt whom?"  
  
Spike shook his head. "The Slayer's gonna destroy you. Do whatever you want to me, but you can't touch her. Can't beat her. She's gonna kick your ass." He pulled against his restraints. "Let me off of here and I'll do it myself!"  
  
"We had to restrain you because you would not stop tearing at your bandages. If you wish to be freed you will have to calm yourself." Spike kept tugging against his bonds. "Nurse, hurry!" The doctor put his hands on both shoulders and pinned Spike to the mattress. "You're going to make yourself bleed again."  
  
Spike giggled. "Can't bleed anymore. You took it all out of me."  
  
"You lost a lot of blood, yes, but we got to you in time."  
  
"No, you _didn't_. She drained me, then fed me, and I _died_. You're not real! Don't you think I know that?"  
  
"Doctor." The nurse returned with a large syringe, as antiquated as the rest of this place. He took it from her and turned back to Spike.  
  
"What ... what's that?"  
  
"Only something to help you rest."  
  
"No. Keep that away from me."  
  
"It's all right, William. Everything will be all right. Just hold still ..."  
  
"She's here, isn't she? She's close, about to find me. You're trying to shut me up, but you won't."  
  
"If you say so." The doctor pushed up the sleeve of Spike's hospital gown.   
  
Spike snarled at him, tried to pull away, tried to go vamp, but he felt the prick of the needle. "Buffy!" he screamed, then he went limp and glared up at the doc, panting. "You can't keep her from me forever."  
  
"I don't intend to," the doctor replied gently, but he was starting to blur and fade out. Whatever they'd pumped into Spike was already working. The doctor shook his head sadly, and turned away as Spike's eyelids slid shut. "Telegram his mother," Spike heard him say. "He's going to be staying with us for a while." It was the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.  
  
***  
  
When he woke again he saw that the scenery had changed. Different room. Smaller, bit more private. Still horribly quaint and hospital-like, though. He was alone, still strapped down. Sunlight flooded in through a small window set high in the wall, spilling across his sheet. It stopped an inch shy of his fingertips. For some reason this didn't alarm him like it should have. Probably because hallucinated sunlight couldn't kill you.  
  
He lay there for a while, watching it creep toward his bare skin. Then on impulse he decided to meet it halfway, straining to stretch his hand forward. When his fingertips reached the light, he instinctively jerked his hand back; then he tried again, leaving them there this time. It felt warm. Not hot, nor deadly. Just ... warm, and pleasantly so. Dust motes caught in the beam swirled around his fingers. He watched, completely mesmerized by the lack of pain or catching on fire.  
  
The curtain beside his bed slid back and he jumped.  
  
"Ah, you're awake," the doctor said cheerfully. Spike recognized him now. Dr. Comfrey, his family's physician. "I trust you're feeling better after all that sleep?"  
  
Spike simply glared at him for a moment then went back to playing in the sunbeam.  
  
"I see." Comfrey made a little disapproving grunt. Then he brightened. "You have a visitor."  
  
"Sod off."  
  
"William!"  
  
The voice was female, and familiar, like a distant memory. Despite its shocked tone, hearing it instantly made him feel warm. Loved. Spike turned back to see a well-dressed woman standing there, grey-haired and handsome, with soft eyes set in an angular face. Those eyes looked frightened and disapproving now, but he knew that they could also look loving and proud. He couldn't take his eyes off her.   
  
"Mama?"  
  
She bustled over to his bedside and stared in outrage at his straps. She turned back to Comfrey. "What is the meaning of these?"  
  
"He was out of control. We were afraid --"  
  
"Nonsense! William would never harm anybody."  
  
The doctor adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "They were for his own protection."  
  
Her hands wrung together as she took in the sight of him, just like they always had whenever she was distraught. God, she looked so ... convincing. Smelled it, too. His heightened senses were gone, but he could still pick out the scents of lavender and face powder that always reminded him of her.  
  
"Oh, my dear boy," she sighed, stroking his hair. For a moment he went with it, leaned into her touch and savored the coolness of her hand against his brow. Then he remembered, and flinched away.  
  
"Stop."  
  
She froze, hand in midair. "William, what --"  
  
"I _told_ you, you can't fool me!" He laughed. "This is a good trick, I'll grant you that. Really --" he looked his "mother" up and down -- "detailed." He shook his head. "But it won't work. I know _better_ now."  
  
"What are you talking about? And why are you speaking in that manner?"  
  
"You might as well let me go, y'know? She's going to find you, and she's going to cause you pain, you can _bloody_ well be sure of that. Come to think of it, maybe I don't mind hanging 'round to see the show, so to speak. It's sure to be better than this one."  
  
Her face fell, and despite everything he felt a pang of guilt. She drew back and regarded him for a moment. Then she turned to the Doctor. "Please leave us."  
  
"I'm not certain that would be wise."  
  
"I would like a moment alone with my son, if you please."  
  
Comfrey looked back and forth between them, then nodded. "Of course. If you need anything, simply ring the bell."  
  
She watched him go, then she went to undo Spike's restraints. He waited, watching as she unbuckled each strap. "Dr. Comfrey said that you lost a great deal of blood. It's understandable that you're imagining things." She moved to the last one. "Still, that's no excuse for them tie you to your bed like some kind of crimin--urgh!"  
  
Spike grabbed her throat. He got out of bed and backed her up against the wall, careful not to squeeze too hard. He couldn't bring himself to really hurt her. Didn't even know if he could. He'd never tried to fight the thing before. Maybe ... maybe if he squeezed hard enough ...  
  
"William!" she gasped, clawing at his hand. "William, please ..." Her eyes, wide with terror, filled with tears.  
  
His certainty crumbled and his hand fell limp at his side. She massaged her throat, gasping for air and staring at him in bewilderment and fear. "You're not _real_," he insisted.  
  
She swallowed. "William ... don't ... don't you know your own mother?"  
  
He backed away from her, shaking his head. Then he turned away and crouched down, hiding his head in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut as he choked back a sob. "Why are you doing this to me?" He lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder. "Why _her_?"  
  
She approached him with hesitation, but when he didn't make a move she knelt beside him. "Darling ... I know you experienced something awful, but you must listen to me. Your manner of speech, your crude language, your ... wild imaginings ... it all has to stop." Again, she stroked his hair. "Dr. Comfrey spoke to me of having you committed, do you know that?" Her voice shook as she spoke. "If you continue this behavior I'll have no choice. And you know our situation has been growing worse since your father passed away. I don't know if we can afford a private hospital, and the things I've heard about those public asylums ..." Her hand flew to her mouth and she choked back a sob. "Please, William. You _must_ pull yourself together so I can take you home. I don't ... I can't manage without you ..." As she trailed off, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.  
  
Spike crouched there and watched her, feeling like an utter shit for making her cry. He didn't know what she was: hallucination, ghost, evil incarnate doing a bang-up impersonation. He couldn't yet allow for the possibility that this was real, that he'd really been pulled through time somehow and his siring had somehow been undone. That would mean ... that would mean a lot of things that were too terrible to contemplate at the moment. Still, this was the closest he'd been to his mother, real or otherwise, since he'd died. And he wasn't going to find out anything lying about in a horribly uncomfortable hospital bed convincing everyone he was stark, slavering buggo. If this was a game, he might as well play it. 'Sides, it sure as hell beat hanging on that wheel in the dark waiting for the hunger to kick in.  
  
"All right," he said, changing his accent to match hers. He gently grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. "Mum ... Mother. I ... I'm sorry. Didn't know where I was. But I'm better now."  
  
She sniffled. "Really?"  
  
He nodded, and forced a smile. "I'll be fine, I promise. Just, please don't cry." He wiped her cheek. "You know I can't bear it when you cry."  
  
She returned his smile. "Oh, William!" She gathered him into her arms, and he let her. "You're coming home with me," she said, hugging him and rocking him gently. "Everything will be all right."  
  
Spike hugged her back, for the moment pretending she was real, and that she was right.  
  
***  
  
To be continued ... 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: That I May Cease To Be  
  
by cousinjean  
  
******************  
PART THREE  
******************  
  
All he'd had to wear home was his best suit. Same one he'd died in. Same one he'd been buried in. It itched, and pinched, and made him long for a nicely worn pair of Levi's. If his discomfort was part of the hallucination, he wished he didn't have quite so vivid an imagination.  
  
He and his mother rode in silence, the better to avoid saying anything that might upset her. Spike gazed out the window as they went, taking in the old city. He felt oddly at home even as he felt like a foreigner, like he didn't belong. He _didn't_ belong. Mustn't forget that. Each site they passed jogged his memory, filling him with an odd mix of nostalgia and dread. Like a bloody high school reunion in hell. Or was that redundant?  
  
A thought occurred to him then. Maybe he really was dead -- dust -- and this was hell. _Or_, he thought, glancing at his mother, _could it be heaven? _ If his soul had been in heaven it brought no memory back with it. 'Course, he'd figured the soul was just as damned as the rest of him now. If this was heaven, it was nothing like he'd imagined it. Nothing like Buffy'd described.  
  
No. If this were heaven, the thought of never seeing her again wouldn't cause him so much despair.  
  
He shut his eyes and forced himself to abandon that train of thought. When he opened them again he saw the Addams's house, where he'd made such a bleeding fool of himself over that Cecily bint. Suddenly it felt like it really had happened only yesterday. A moment later they passed the stable where he'd first met Dru. He'd always thought of that as his birthplace; but now a cave in Africa held that distinction. The stable held only death. Except, it didn't, did it? Now it was simply the place where he'd been left for dead but then rescued in time. It made no sense. Not only the torturous trip down memory lane, but, well, why would she have left him there? What changed? Spike felt the strange sensation of his heart speeding up as a thought occurred to him: maybe finding out what had gone wrong was the key to getting back.  
  
The carriage came to a stop in front of his family home -- a place he had thought he'd never lay eyes on again. Especially since this whole block had been demolished in the sixties to make way for a ruddy car park. Spike got out without waiting for the driver. His mouth went dry as he stood frozen in place, staring up the steps at the front door.  
  
A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, and he turned to help his mother out of the cab. She looked up at him with concern. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Fine, Mum." She raised an eyebrow. "Mother," he corrected.  
  
She nodded, but as she pulled her shawl more tightly around her she didn't look convinced. "You behave as though you haven't been home in ages."  
  
"Bit knackered, is a--" He caught himself, and sighed internally. _Mind your speech, Mate. And by the way? "Mate"'s right out._ He straightened his posture and gave her an apologetic smile. "So much has happened. The laudinum, the police interview ... it's all taken a lot out of me."  
  
"Yes, well." She patted his arm. "All the better to get you settled so you can rest." She started up the steps, and he followed.   
  
A woman opened the door to them. Short, plump, and at least ten years older than his mother. She had a no-nonsense look about her, but she smiled warmly as they entered. Spike remembered liking this woman.   
  
"Good to see you feeling better, Master William," she said.  
  
Spike just nodded, trying to recall her name.  
  
"Mrs. Stanley," his mother supplied, "will you turn down William's bed for him? Perhaps you should also draw him a bath."  
  
"That won't be necessary," he cut in. "Please, Mama," he said before she could protest. "I just want to clean up, get out of this sod-- er, this suit." _Get some time alone to figure out what the bloody hell is happening to me._ "I can manage myself."  
  
Mother studied him warily, then nodded as she handed off her hat and shawl to the housekeeper. "You've some time until supper. Try to rest."  
  
He smiled. "Of course."  
  
She returned his smile, comforted at last. Then she tilted her head and watched him expectantly. Was there something else he was supposed to do? When he made no move, she tapped her index finger against her cheek. Oh, right. Spike leaned down and planted a kiss there. She looked satisfied, but then her eyes fell on his bandage. She reached up to stroke it. "Do be more careful in the future, William."  
  
"Yes, Mother."  
  
With a sigh, she reached up to tousle his hair. Then she turned and whisked into the parlor, giving more instructions to Mrs. Stanley. Spike watched her for a moment before starting for the staircase.  
  
Just walking up was an exercise in the surreal. Family portraits stared down at him as he went, people he hadn't spared a moment's thought for since he'd died but who had been so important to him before. Like his father, who glowered down all disapproving, as though he knew Spike wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe he could tell him how to get home? He bet Red could make him do that. Too bad she wouldn't be born for another hundred years. Nor Buffy ...  
  
"Focus, Spike," he muttered to himself as he reached the landing.  
  
His room sat at the opposite end of the hall, looking just as he remembered: cluttered and disorganized, despite Mrs. Stanley's best efforts at keeping it clean. Stacks of books covered the night table and window seat. Papers lay piled on the writing desk, threatening to spill onto the floor if so much as a fruitfly sneezed too hard. Spike crossed over to them, picked up a handful, and read:  
  
My lady's locks, an ebon delight,  
cascading curls aglow with starlight.   
He dropped the papers back on the desk with a disgusted sigh. This new big bad must _really_ hate him. Even he couldn't imagine that he used to be such a naive prat. He shook his head, then caught a motion out of the corner of his eye and jumped. The sight of himself standing across the room raised his hackles and he prepared to fight. Then he realized: his reflection, was all.  
  
Was _all_?  
  
A young man with bloody ridiculous hair stared back at him with a tilted head and an expression of wonder. Maybe just a little sadness. His glasses were crooked. Spike reached up and adjusted them, a little disconcerted to see his movements matched in the mirror. It wasn't that he'd forgotten what he looked like. He'd seen pictures, security camera footage, sketches -- hell, he figured his evil twin these past few weeks was about as perfect a likeness as it gets. But this was different. It was all backwards. The bloke in the mirror matched him movement for movement, but it was all opposite, wasn't it? Stupid thing to surprise him, really. Not like he'd _never_ looked in a mirror before; but he hadn't had cause to think about it in so long. It was almost funny. He was lefthanded, his reflection was righthanded. The scar in the mirror was on his left eyebrow instead of ... hold up.  
  
Spike crossed over to the mirror and leaned in close. He ran a finger along his eyebrow, smooth and unmarred. 'Course it was. The scar was still twenty years off. He dropped his hand and leaned against the basin stand, looking to see what else was different. Except for the scar and the specs, it should be the same face, right? The face he died with, aged no more than a day. So how come it felt so strange to have such wizened, world-weary eyes looking back at him from underneath those poofy bangs?  
  
His eyes dropped to the bandage on his neck. More newness. First time 'round, that wound had already healed by the time he'd dug his way out of the grave. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the bed, then turned back to the mirror and unwrapped his neck. Tilting his head for a better look, he traced the bite. Drusilla's, all right. He knew it like he knew her signature. Least that much had happened right.  
  
With a sigh, Spike took off his glasses and rolled up his sleeves, then bent over the basin and splashed water on his face. He felt around until his hand found a towel. As he dried off, he straightened up and opened his eyes.   
  
And looked right into the eyeless, hooded face of a Harbinger.  
  
Spike jumped, but then it was gone, and he wasn't even sure he'd really seen it. He leaned in for a closer look, pressing his hands against the glass, almost hoping it would give, suck him through like some expensive horror movie effect. Or at least bring the image back up. Just show him some sign ... prove to him that he wasn't out of his mind. Or maybe that he _was_.  
  
"Really, William, you're not _that_ handsome."  
  
Spike spun around. A man lounged in the doorway. Blond hair, mustache, insufferable smirk. "Who ..."  
  
The bloke straightened and sauntered into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "What do you mean, 'who'? It hasn't been _that_ long since I was last in London."  
  
Spike just stared, racking his brain to place him.   
  
The man laughed. "They said you almost got your throat sliced open. They said nothing about hitting your head." As Spike continued to stare, the laughter faded. "Oh, come now, William. We're practically brothers!"   
  
Nothing.   
  
"Cambridge? We shared rooms for four terms! You can't be serious."  
  
It was coming back to him. Spike smiled. "Hello, Charlie."  
  
Charlie looked at him sideways. "You almost had me."  
  
Spike quirked an eyebrow. "Almost?"  
  
"Wasn't fooled for a minute."  
  
"Course not," said Spike. Charlie just stood there with a quizzical expression. "Um ..." Spike motioned to a set of chairs beside the fireplace. "Please, have a seat." Had to remember he was someplace where etiquette was expected. "So ... what brings you to London?"  
  
"Business, of course. I won't bore you with the details." Charlie pulled off his gloves as he sat down. "I arrived only this afternoon, but when I heard my old chum William was the talk of the town I had to come and get the story straight from the horse's mouth."  
  
Spike paused, half-standing, half-sitting, and gave his friend a pointed look. "I'm quite well, Charlie, thank you for asking."  
  
"I was getting to that." His eyes flicked down to Spike's neck. "My God, William. What in blazes happened?"  
  
_Good question._ Spike's eyes drifted to the fire. "'La belle dame sans merci,'" he said softly, tracing the bite with his fingers.  
  
Charlie sighed, loudly. "Oh, William, for heaven's sake."  
  
That got him a raised eyebrow. "What?"  
  
"Everyone is saying that you fled the Addams's party after Cecily broke your heart."  
  
"That's not what -- well, that is what happened. What of it?"  
  
"What -- William, everybody thinks that you were _trying_ to get killed. I refused to believe it, but ..."  
  
"But what? And who said that?"  
  
"_Everyone_ is saying it!"  
  
"Well it's _not true_!" Spike jumped out of his chair and paced in front of the fire.  
  
"But you said ..."  
  
"Said what?"  
  
"La belle dame ... isn't that Cecily?"  
  
Spike stopped, and considered. "Indeed it is. But I didn't mean her. I was talking about the one who gave me this." He pointed at the bite mark.  
  
Charlie's eyes went wide. "What, you mean a woman did that to you?"  
  
Spike nodded absently. "Believe me, Charlie, I am completely over Miss Cecily Addams."  
  
"What, just like that? But only in your last letter you said ... oh." Charlie laughed. "Lord, William, don't tell me this cutthroat lady thief has stolen your heart."  
  
"What? No." _Not this time._ "Nothing like that."  
  
"Glad to hear it. You do have an awful habit of setting your sights on impossible women." Charlie checked his pocket watch and stood up. "I'll have to press you for details later. For now I must be off."  
  
Spike nodded. "Thanks for stopping by."  
  
"Will you feel up to a round at the club this evening?"  
  
_Club? Oh, right._ "Mother's having Cook fix all my favorites tonight. I can't skip out."  
  
"Meet me after, then. Give you a chance to set the record straight about your suicide attempt. Perhaps we can even set forth a nasty rumor about Miss Addams."  
  
Spike smiled at that. "Now, Charlie, that wouldn't be gentlemanly."  
  
"No, but it would be fun. I'll see you there?"  
  
"Yeah. Yes." Spike nodded. "I'll be there."  
  
"Very good. Until then, get some rest. I'll see myself out."  
  
Spike watched him go, marveling at how easily he'd slipped back into the role. He tried to recall the last time he'd seen his old friend, and realized he could still remember how he had tasted. He squeezed his eyes shut against that memory. When he opened them again, he looked at the mirror.  
  
_You do have an awful habit of setting your sights on impossible women._  
  
The only woman he cared about was about to face the fight of her life a hundred some-odd years in the future. Spike sunk back into his chair and stared at the fire as he considered the possibilities, even the ones he didn't want to face. God help him, if he had to live out the rest of his life without Buffy ...   
No. This trip down memory lane had been fun, but it was time to end it. There had to be a way back -- _had_ to be!   
  
For now he would rest, and after that he would enjoy dinner with his mother. Then he would figure out just exactly what the hell was happening to him._  
_  
  
***  
  
Mum hadn't been pleased when he'd told her he was going out. The old William would have caved and sent Charlie his regrets; but sod it all, he needed to get out. He couldn't just sit around, stewing in his fears and driving himself even more brain-buggered. Nor could he relax and enjoy the fantasy. He felt an overwhelming need to _do_ something. And he needed a drink. Make that drinks, plural. Something a great deal stronger than the sherry his mother kept hidden in the larder.  
  
The sun hadn't yet set when he left. He went two blocks sticking to the shadows before remembering that he didn't have to. Couldn't get used to that. Not that he had any intention of getting used to it. Another block, and he reached the stable. He didn't know how long he stood outside. Long enough for the evening shadows to grow longer and almost disappear. What was it he'd told Buffy about his turning? That dying had made him feel truly alive? God, but he'd been full of shit that night.  
  
He took a deep breath to steel himself, and grimaced at the smell of horses. Animal sweat, straw and manure. Something else, too. Blood. Even his human nose could detect it. He entered, but halted just inside, letting the memory wash over him. Shredded pieces of paper lay scattered on and around the bale of hay he'd been sitting on when ...  
  
He jumped, realized he was standing in the same spot Dru had been when he'd first laid eyes on her. He moved forward, bent and picked a scrap of paper out of the straw. It contained a single word, neatly scripted in his own handwriting: "effulgent." With a rueful smile, he let it go and watched it flutter to the ground. He raised his eyes again and saw the spot where she'd seduced him.  
  
Murdered him.  
  
_Damned_ him.  
  
He'd never thought of it in those terms before. But as he crouched beside a patch of straw stained with his blood, the full weight of what Drusilla had done struck him so hard that he flinched. He put his hands out to steady himself.  
  
_Do you want it?  
  
Yes. God, yes.  
  
_But he hadn't known what she was offering. If he had, would he have taken it? He honestly couldn't say. He couldn't hate her for it, though. Couldn't stay angry. She hadn't known any better. He couldn't make that excuse for himself -- not really -- but for her, it was true. All she'd wanted was to make herself a playmate.  
  
"So why didn't you?" he asked, his fingers finding their way to her bitemark on his neck. "Why didn't you finish it, Dru?"  
  
"Please tell me you're not developing a morbid fascination with your own death."  
  
Spike stood and looked back at the entrance. "Charlie?"  
  
"Although, it could help your poetry. Turn you into the next Edgar Allan Poe. But hopefully with a less dismal ending." Charlie grinned at him.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I was on my way to see if you wanted to ride to the club together. But then I saw you come in here and simply had to follow."  
  
"I just --" Spike looked around and shrugged. "I was curious. Nothing to see here, though."  
  
"Well I could have told you that. Now come along. This place smells like a stable."  
  
Spike caught himself smiling. "Off we go, then." He followed his friend out of the stable. Charlie kept casting sideways glances at him as they strolled along the street. Finally, Spike had enough. "What?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Then stop looking at me."  
  
"Fine." They walked a few more paces before Charlie sighed. "It's only that, well, you seem different since we last met. More ... oh, I don't know. You're standing straighter, for one thing."  
  
"Guess dying tends to change a man."  
  
"You didn't die, William."  
  
"Came close, didn't I?" Spike shrugged. "Call it a new lease on life." _Call it whatever you bloody well like, just don't make me act like that priggish tosser all evening._  
  
"Indeed. I believe I might very well like the new you."  
  
"The new me is glad to hear it."  
  
They passed by a pub. Looked rough, long as you didn't compare it to Willie's. Full of loud working class blokes and barmaids with cleavage pushed up to their necks. Just the sort of place where Spike felt right at home. But not William. Not by a long shot.  
  
"All right. There is the new you, and then there is a complete stranger masquerading as my old chum William. Which would you be, then?"  
  
"Huh?" Spike realized he'd stopped outside the pub and was staring in. Charlie had walked on past and now stood leaning on his cane, staring at Spike like he'd ... well, like he'd gone all bumpy. Spike rubbed his forehead just to be sure. Nope, still smooth.  
  
"You don't want to go in _there_."  
  
Spike shrugged. "Long as we're here ..."  
  
"You're joking."  
  
"What? Surely you've been inside a pub before."  
  
"I ... well, yes, I have. Frequently. But the point, you see, is that you _haven't_."  
  
Spike grinned, enjoying Charlie's shock. "First time for everything," he said; then he went inside. He strode toward the back, ignoring hostile glances from the regular patronage, and found a table relatively sheltered from the noise. As he sat down he saw Charlie doing his best to squeeze through the crowd without bumping into anybody.  
  
Reaching the table, Charlie eyed him suspiciously. "I'm beginning to suspect that perhaps you _have_ done this before."  
  
Spike smirked and turned his attention to the barmaid coming to greet them.  
  
"Nothing for me, thanks," Charlie said before she could ask, and pulled a silver flask from his coat.  
  
"What'll ye have?" she asked Spike.  
  
"Whiskey. Strongest you got."  
  
She looked him up and down incredulously, then shrugged and went to get his drink.  
  
"I wish you would stop looking at me like that," Spike finally said to Charlie.  
  
"But I can't help it. I don't know who you are anymore."  
  
Spike frowned, his good mood fading. "Wish I could tell you." The waitress set his drink in front of him. Spike picked it up, drained it, and handed her the glass. "I'll need another one of these."  
  
The expression on Charlie's face changed from bemused to concerned. "What's happened to you, William?"  
  
Spike opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again and shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."  
  
"Try me."  
  
Spike nodded his thanks to the barmaid as she set a second drink in front of him. He twirled the glass on the table, watching the golden liquid swish around inside. "Let's just say, I've been through a lot since last you saw me."  
  
"Now that, I'm inclined to believe." Charlie took a swig from his flask and put it away. Then he leaned back in his chair and took a long, hard look at Spike. "You seem ... older, somehow."  
  
"I feel about a hundred years older."   
  
Charlie shook his head. "What exactly did Miss Addams do to you?"  
  
Spike sighed, irritated. "It's not about Cecily." He took a drink of his whiskey.  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
Maybe he should just lay it all out there. Tell Charlie the whole story. Spike considered this, then shook his head. "It's about --" He stopped as a familiar shape flitted into his line of vision over Charlie's shoulder. Spike stared at her. "Drusilla."  
  
Charlie frowned. "I don't know any Drusilla. What family is she ..." At last he caught on and followed Spike's gaze. "Oh. Oh!" He laughed. "Well, one thing hasn't changed, William. You're still refreshingly naive about women." Then he frowned again. "That is, unless your new lease on life includes taking members of the oldest profession to your bed."  
  
Spike spared him a glance. "She's not a whore, Charlie."  
  
"William, of course she's ..."   
  
Spike tuned him out, focusing solely on Dru as she slinked from man to man, all seduction, charm and grace. She looked lovely, with black ringlets spilling out from beneath her hat, over her shoulders and down the back of her burgundy dress -- the personification of beauty and death. This felt familiar. Then he remembered why. They used to play this game. She'd go in, play the temptress, the whore. He would sit in the back, just as he was doing now, and watch her hunt, enjoying the way she toyed with her prey. Then she'd lure one out to the back alley. He would follow, and together they would feast.  
  
He wondered vaguely if perhaps he'd somehow been split in two halves, good and evil, and if William the Bloody Fledgling was waiting out in that alley for his sire to bring him his first meal. Then another thought occurred to him: what if she was his way back? Maybe this was his chance to put things back the way they were supposed to be.  
  
The tip of a cane waved in front of his face. "William!" Charlie sounded irritated. "Have you heard a single word I've said?"  
  
"What? No, sorry."   
  
"I said, I do believe you're drunk."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Look at you! Sitting there all vacant, swaying back and forth ... and you're a little green around the gills."  
  
Spike did feel a bit nauseated, but not because of the whiskey. "'M not drunk! Only had two, takes a hell of a lot more'n that to get me --" _Ah, bugger. Not a vampire anymore, you nit!_  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"Shut up, Charlie."  
  
Charlie laughed. "Perhaps it's time we got you home. Or maybe we should go somewhere and get you a strong tea. I wonder if they serve ... ."  
  
But Spike's attention was back on Drusilla as she took a burly sailor by the hand and led him towards the back door. If he was still evil, Spike would be making a joke about seafood right about now. "Excuse me, Charlie," he said as the couple passed right by their table. He grabbed his glass, took another drink, then stood up and bumped right into the sailor, splashing the remainder of his whiskey all over him.  
  
"What the ... Christ!" the sailor shouted.  
  
Spike did his best to look mortified. "Oh, dear, I'm so terribly sorry. I didn't see you there."  
  
"Watch it, will you?"  
  
"Of course!" Spike pulled out his handkerchief. "Here, allow me," he said, dabbing at the whiskey stains on the man's uniform.  
  
"Oi! Bugger off, you poncey git!" He looked around, searching frantically. "Now you've made me lose the bird."  
  
"Bird?" Spike looked confused as he adjusted his glasses. "I didn't see a bird, but I'd be happy to help you look for it. Was it a parrot?"  
  
"William!" Charlie hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"  
  
"Oh, just piss off," the sailor said, and went back to the bar.  
  
Charlie looked appalled. "Would you mind explaining to me --"  
  
"Later, Charlie. Back in a mo'." Spike went out the back door to the alley. It appeared empty, but no telling what lurked in the shadows. He walked down the street a little ways, peering into the dark. "Drusilla?" No answer, though he thought he heard a rustle that might have been a skirt. "I only want to talk, to ask you something, Pet. Please, Dru --"  
  
"Now I can't imagine what you'd be wanting with my little girl," a voice said behind him. Spike froze, the hair all along his spine standing on end as he recognized the Irish brogue. "And I especially can't imagine why you'd go and chase away our supper. But no harm done, I s'pose." A heavy hand clasped his shoulder and spun him around. Angelus grabbed his throat and grinned, showing off his fangs. "You'll do in a pinch."  
  
***   
To be continued 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: That I May Cease To Be  
  
by cousinjean  
  
****************  
PART FOUR  
****************  
  
Spike clawed at Angelus's hand, but his grip only tightened. Spike couldn't breathe. He felt himself lifted up, his toes barely dragging the ground, then not touching at all. Then Angelus threw him across the alley. He hit the wall and bounced, landing in a heap face down on the cobblestones.  
  
Slowly, Spike pushed himself up, shook his head to clear it and to stop the ringing in his ears. He tasted blood in his mouth. He didn't like it. This made him laugh. He glanced up and saw a pair of ugly brown boots stomping towards him, which made him laugh harder. A hand reached down and grabbed his collar, then hauled him up and slammed him against the wall.  
  
"Mind telling me what it is you're finding so funny?"  
  
"Nothing," Spike said, managing to get his laugher under control. "'S just, I thought it was meant to be Dru. But you'll do in a pinch."  
  
"Will I now?"  
  
"You're not my ideal for a sire, but I don't s'pose it'll make that much difference in the long run, will it?"  
  
Angelus seemed a little taken aback. He looked Spike up and down. "That's awful big talk coming from a dandy such as yourself. And what makes you so certain I intend to sire you?"  
  
"Guess I'm not." Spike shrugged. "Do what you want, mate. Just do it quick. Don't know about you, but I'm starting to get bored." As Angelus took a moment to think about it, Spike made a show of looking around. "By the by, where's Darla?" He laughed again and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't tell me. You had a fight and she locked you out of your room again."  
  
Angelus's eyes narrowed. "And just how is it that you know Darla?"  
  
"Wouldn't you like to know?"  
  
"Indeed I would." Angelus grinned. "But you can tell me later." He grabbed Spike's face and forced it sideways, cheek pressed against the brick as a hand on his other cheek pinned him there. Another hand grabbed his collar and jerked it open, exposing Dru's bitemark. "Looks like my girl already got a taste of you."  
  
"Just finish it," Spike said, closing his eyes and bracing himself. He hated this. He didn't want to live through that again, to do it all over. But if that was the only way to get back ...  
  
"William! Where did you -- what are you doing?"  
  
Spike opened his eyes. Charlie stood in the alley, a picture of bewilderment. "Charlie, get away. Run!"  
  
With a growl, Angelus glanced toward Charlie. "Nice distraction," he said, turning back to Spike. "And here I thought you were sincere. Don't worry, though. I'll get your friend Charlie when we're done here, and he can join you."  
  
"That's not how it's supposed to happen," said Spike.  
  
Angelus shrugged. "You'll find I don't do well with 'supposed to'." He lunged, and bit. Spike didn't cry out this time. Until he saw Charlie again, coming up behind Angelus, cane raised over his head. "Charlie, no!"  
  
With a growl, Angelus dropped Spike and spun around. When Charlie saw his face he dropped his cane and staggered back toward the pub. Tearing his glasses from his face, Spike grabbed Angelus's shoulder. When he turned back Spike jammed the earpiece into his eye. Angelus howled in pain. Without looking back Spike ran, grabbing Charlie and pulling him back into the pub and through the crowd, not caring who they jostled or pissed off along the way.  
  
Out in the street, he kept running, still dragging Charlie by the wrist. He couldn't keep going, though. He was so bloody human now; he had limits. A stitch in his side, a tightening in his chest and frantic pleas from Charlie all told him to stop. But he couldn't. Not yet. Wasn't safe.  
  
He spotted a church at the end of the block and pulled Charlie towards it. Once they were inside Spike collapsed, dropping to his knees and leaning forward to rest his head on the floor, gasping for air. Beside him Charlie stood doubled over, hands braced on his knees. Least Spike wasn't alone in being out of shape.  
  
Soon as he could talk, Charlie straightened and looked down at William. "What. The bloody hell. Was _that_?"  
  
Spike rolled onto his back. "That ... my dear Charlie ... was a vampire."  
  
Charlie stared at him for a beat. Then he burst out laughing. Spike pulled his collar aside and showed him his new bite wound. Charlie stopped laughing.  
  
"But. That ... no. It can't be."  
  
"'Course it can."  
  
Charlie went to the nearest pew and sunk down. He pulled out his flask and took a long drink.  
  
Spike got to his feet. "That empty yet?"  
  
With a grimace, Charlie shook his flask. "I'm afraid so."  
  
"Good." Spike pointed at the holy water. "Go fill it up again."  
  
Charlie stared at his flask, then looked back at the holy water. "That really works? Are you certain?"  
  
"Oh yeah, it works. Burns like a son of a bitch." Spike headed down the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. A table on his right held candles and various religious artifacts. Carefully, Spike reached down and picked up a small, wooden crucifix. He took a moment to marvel at being able to hold it in his hand.  
  
"What now?" Charlie called from the back.  
  
Spike tucked the cross into his coat and went to meet Charlie. "Now we go home."  
  
"I lost my cane," said Charlie.  
  
"Yeah, you did."  
  
"You lost your glasses."  
  
"I'll get along without them. Now come on. Let's get a cab."  
  
Spike saw Charlie home first. Along the way, Charlie kept silent as Spike explained to him the rules of basic vampire safety. When they reached his hotel, Charlie swallowed, and nodded, and got out of the cab. Then he turned back to Spike.  
  
"We're going to have a talk about all of this, William."  
  
Spike just nodded his head. He stayed until Charlie got safely inside, then he directed the driver to take him home.  
  
Mrs. Stanley met him at the door. "Master William!" she gasped when she saw him. "What's happened?"  
  
Spike looked down at his disheveled clothes. "Got into a bit of a row. Is Mother still awake?"  
  
"She retired about an hour ago."  
  
"Good. Now listen. I don't want you to open the door to any strangers, and don't invite anybody in until you check with me first. Understand?"  
  
"But your mother won't --"  
  
He raised his voice. "Do you understand?"   
  
The housekeeper nodded. "Yes sir."  
  
"Good. Sorry to shout, but it's important. And, um, don't tell Mother about how I look." He smiled. "You know how she worries."  
  
"Yes. And rightly so by the look of you."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Stanley."  
  
She gave him one more disapproving look, then went about her business as an exhausted Spike headed upstairs. He pulled off his coat as he trudged into his room, then shrugged off his suspenders, unbuttoned his shirt, and dropped it in a heap beside the wash stand. Examining his new wound in the mirror, it struck him that he looked even more like a stranger than before.  
  
God, what if he was really stuck here? Doomed to live out the rest of William's life, to die a lonely old man decades before Buffy would even be born. And what would become of her if that were the case? He didn't kid himself that he mattered that much in the grand scheme of things -- hell, a lot of people would have been a lot better off if William the Bloody had never existed -- but he'd saved her life enough times to know that he mattered in that context, even if he never mattered to _her_.  
  
Spike sighed. He was too bloody tired to think about it. Not to mention just plain bloody. He grabbed a rag and cleaned himself up. Then he went to his bed and collapsed. A minute later, he was out.  
  
_"Spike?"  
  
Her voice was so close now. So close ...  
  
"Oh my God."  
  
"What ... what did they do to him?"  
  
Not just her, then. Both his girls. They'd both come for him.  
  
"My guess is they bled him." Was that ... Giles? "But for what?"  
  
"From the shape of those cuts and the scary evil seal on the floor? I'm thinking it wasn't the Red Cross here for a blood drive. Spike? Talk to me!" A frustrated sigh. "Find me a way to get him down. Xander, Anya, there ought to be a ladder somewhere in this basement. Go get it. But don't get lost."  
  
"Well that's easier said --"  
  
"Wait!" Red. Well then. Gang's all here. "There's a crank dealie over here. This ought to lower him."  
  
"Great. Spike, we'll have you down in a minute. Can you open your eyes?"  
  
Yes. Yes, he could. He could do anything she asked of him. He opened them to see her, but a blinding light hit him and he squeezed them shut. God, please, not again ...  
  
"Xander! Don't shine that in his face!"  
  
"Sorry. Hey Spike, we'll have you down in a jiff, just hang in there. ... Okay, I didn't mean to pun just then. You don't all have to look at me like that."  
  
"Go help Willow."  
  
"Right."  
  
A creaking noise, and he was moving. Soon he was right side up, then a gentle thump, and he stopped.  
  
A hand on his cheek, featherlight caress. "Spike. Look at me."  
  
He did. The light from Harris's torch lined her face, lit her up from behind. She didn't glow like the other one. But God, she was vibrant.  
  
"Buffy?"  
  
"It's okay." She stroked his hair out of his face. "You're gonna be okay."  
  
"I went home."  
  
"Home? What --"  
  
"My mum was there. She petted my hair too."  
  
She pulled her hand away.   
  
"Nice to see he's still with the crazy." No. Not so, Harris. Not anymore.  
  
"He needs blood."  
  
"Well, we've still got bags and bags of it back at the house, so --"  
  
"I don't know if he can wait that long."   
  
Spike licked his lips. Had to go and mention blood, didn't she?  
  
"Giles, bring me that knife."  
  
Xander stepped forward. "Wait ... Buffy, you're not gonna ..."  
  
She ignored him, looked at Giles. "Help me cut him loose."  
  
"Yes, of course."  
  
Spike turned his head to see Giles. "Dad? Izzat you?"  
  
Giles glanced up at Spike, then to Buffy. "Good to know his cunning wit's undamaged."  
  
Spike turned back to Buffy. "Thought I'd never see you again."  
  
She frowned at that. When she spoke, she was quiet. "You had to know I'd come after --"  
  
"Not that. Knew you would. But I ... I was stuck. I tried to get back to you, but ..."  
  
_William?  
  
_"But, Angelus, he ..."  
  
"It's okay. We're gonna get you out of here and take you home."  
  
_William!  
  
_"No. Don't, don't wan' go back ..."  
  
Hands holding his face. "Spike?"   
  
_Hands shaking him. William!  
  
_No!  
  
"Spike! Stay with me!"  
  
I'm trying ...  
  
_"William, wake up!"  
  
He opened his eyes and blinked up at his mother.  
  
"It's past noon," she said, pressing her palm to his forehead. "Are you ill?"  
  
Spike knocked her hand away and sat up, looking wildly around his old room. "But I was ... I can't be back ..."  
  
"William, what is the matter?"  
  
Spike looked at her. "She was right _here._ They _all_ were!"  
  
"Who?" With an exasperated sigh, his mother reached for him. "Darling--"  
  
"No!" Spike pulled away from her. He drew his knees up and rested his head on them. "I can't do this. Please make it stop. Just let me go back."  
  
"Son ... you had a bad dream, is all."  
  
He raised up and shook his head, then wiped his nose on the sheet. "No. Not a dream. It was --" But then it hit him. It had to be a dream, didn't it? Buffy ... he did believe she would save him, if she could. She probably had bigger problems, though. The others? Harris? Giles? _Dawn_? He'd be lucky if they'd deign to piss on him if he was on fire. Hell, Giles wasn't even in the sodding country! Of course it was only a dream.  
  
"William, you're beginning to frighten me."  
  
He looked at her then, at the way she was twisting the sheet in her hands. He reached out and took one. "Sorry, Mama. You're right. Had a bad dream."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
He nodded. "That's all."  
  
She sighed, clearly relieved, and patted his hand. Then she stood up. "In that case, please get dressed and come downstairs. You've a visitor."  
  
Spike's eyes widened. "Who?"  
  
"Cecily Addams."  
  
He sighed, in both relief and irritation. "I told Mrs. Stanley --"  
  
"I know very well what you told Mrs. Stanley. She told me your instructions." She eyed him disapprovingly. "She also said that you'd been in a fight and that you came home smelling of cheap whiskey."  
  
"Bleeding narc," Spike muttered.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
His mum began to pace, wringing her hands. She looked like she was searching for the right words. "William," she said at last, "are you in some sort of trouble? Is it ... is there a gambling debt, or perhaps --"  
  
"_No_, Mother. Nothing like that."  
  
"Then _what_ is happening with you? Why are you behaving so strangely?"  
  
Spike ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I almost _died_, Mother. I got a good look at what my life was before and I didn't like what I saw."  
  
"And you think a life of drinking, fighting, and coming home covered in blood is preferable?"  
  
_As a matter of fact ..._ He shook his head. "I went out with Charlie, we stopped in a pub. Things got out of hand. That's _all_." He sighed. "I don't expect you to understand ..."  
  
She sat back down on the edge of his bed. "I want to, William. Oh, I do wish your father was here --"  
  
"He'd congratulate me for finally behaving like a man," Spike muttered.  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"It is, and --"  
  
"Your father was more proud of you than you will ever know!"  
  
Spike shut his mouth and blinked at her, completely taken aback. Then he shrugged. "Can't imagine why."  
  
She reached out and caught his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "For the same reasons I am."  
  
That hit him where he lived. Spike squeezed his eyes shut. "Mama --"  
  
"You are handsome, and full of wit and charm. You have a clever mind, a loving heart and a kind, gentle soul. _None_ of that is anything to be ashamed of, my William." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.   
  
Spike found himself at a loss for words. Good thing, though. He didn't trust his voice at the moment.  
  
His mother smiled. "Miss Addams is quite fortunate to have you for a suitor. Now get dressed, and hurry." She stood up. "She's waiting in the front parlour." With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Spike alone.  
  
***  
  
To be continued ... 


	5. Chapter 5

Title: That I May Cease To Be  
  
by cousinjean  
  
************  
PART FIVE  
************  
  
She stood at the window, her back to him as she watched some scene or another unfold in the street. She had no idea he'd come in. Spike stole through the room to get a better look at her. Pretty enough, he supposed, but not nearly as beautiful as he remembered. Least, not from this angle.  
  
"Cecily."  
  
He startled her. She turned to him, hand spread across her chest, eyes wide. Too wide, in fact, and widely set. So this angle wasn't any better.  
  
"William," she said, a touch breathless. "I didn't hear you come in." She looked him up and down. He hadn't put on his suit jacket, nor had he bothered with his hair. So he faced her in his shirtsleeves, all disheveled-like. No doubt she felt right scandalized. "I thought your mother informed you that I was here."  
  
"She did. What do you want?"  
  
She smoothed her skirt and took a deep breath, making a good show of composing herself. "I heard about your ... unfortunate incident," she said at last.  
  
He narrowed his eyes. There was something about her ... something a little out of place. He couldn't put his finger on it, though. "And, what? You thought you'd come over, make sure I'm pining away over you? See if you can get me to take the more direct route of slashing my wrists next time?"  
  
She pursed her lips, looked down at her clasped hands. "I confess that I used rather harsh words with you that night. Perhaps moreso than necessary." She lifted her chin and met his eyes. "I only wanted to ... what's happened to your glasses?"  
  
"Lost 'em."  
  
"Oh." She said nothing else, just kept on staring.   
  
Spike slowly raised an eyebrow at her. "You only wanted to..."  
  
Cecily smiled demurely. "I wanted to make certain that you were well, and that --"  
  
"That you weren't responsible?"  
  
"Well ... yes."  
  
Spike smiled, gently if not sincerely. "Fear not, Cecily. As far as I'm concerned, what happened at your party is ancient history."  
  
"I'm pleased to hear it," she said, her smile widening into a grin. She took a step toward him, and a sense of familiarity struck him. Something in her smile, her walk, the timber of her voice. "I admit, I might have been a bit hasty to dismiss you so completely. It's only that, well, you caught me by surp--"  
  
"Halfrek."  
  
She blinked. "Pardon?"  
  
His hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist. She gasped and jumped back, but he moved with her. "You're that friend of Anya's, the vengeance demon. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"  
  
"What? I don't know anyone named --"  
  
"Did you do this? Did you bring me here? Did someone make a wish?"  
  
"William, you're hurting me!"  
  
She struggled, but he grabbed hold of her upper arms. "Answer me!"  
  
"I don't--"  
  
He gave her a shake. "You can send me back. You have to -- she needs me! You have to send me back!"  
  
"Let me GO!" She screamed on the last word, beating her fists against his chest.   
  
Tears spilled down her face. Spike released her and dropped to his knees before her. "Please... Please. I wish to go back."  
  
She backed away from him towards the foyer, rubbing her arms. "They said your mother was advised to have you committed." She took a kerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. "Perhaps _she_ was the hasty one."  
  
Spike felt his whole being harden. He glared up at her. "Get out."  
  
She stared at him, shocked. "I have never been treated so --"  
  
"You're going to be treated far worse if you don't GET! _OUT_!"  
  
Shock turned to terror as Cecily picked up her skirts and fled out of the house. Spike let his head fall backwards as he squeezed his eyes shut against the prick of tears. God, what the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just enjoy his time here? He was home. He was alive. And he was loved. He also could have had Cecily eating out of the palm of his hand. This could be his chance to do it all over, to live the life he -- William -- had always wanted, without the bloodshed and the horror. Nothing to feel guilty about. No more nightmares. Even if none of this was real, wasn't it preferable to hanging on a bleeding cross in the cold and dark with death refusing to come and put him out of his misery? Why was he so bloody desperate to get back there?  
  
Stupid question, really. He knew the answer. Hadn't stopped thinking about it one second since he'd woken up in the hospital. He thought about his dream from the night before. The way she'd caressed his face, her conviction that _of course_ she had come for him. They all had, as if he was one of their own. For a moment he let himself believe that it had been more than a dream. That, for a brief time, he'd been lucid and that had all been real. And they were working even now to get him out of there while he was stuck in the recesses of his own memory and imagination.  
  
"William, come here please."   
  
Well, that certainly sounded real enough. Pissed off, too. Spike got to his feet and dragged into his mother's sitting room.  
  
She sat in her favorite wingbacked chair, book open face down across her lap. Her eyes looked stern, and more than a touch worried, as she peered at him over the top of her reading glasses. "Explain to me the meaning of what just happened in there."  
  
Just like that, a hundred and twenty years melted away, and another twenty after that, as the Big Bad found himself reduced to a quivering boy. "I can't," he mumbled.  
  
"You can, and you will."  
  
_Right. Sorry, mum, she looked like this vengeance demon I know from the future, thought she might know how to send me back there. Guess I was wrong. So, do you want to telegraph the white coats or shall I?_ "I ... she ..." With a sigh of frustration, he raked a hand through his hair. "Did you hear what she said to me?"  
  
Mother's face softened. She laid her book on the table beside her chair, removed her glasses, and set them on top. Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. "I did hear. She was wrong to say it. But you gave her reason, William."  
  
"I lost my temper," he offered.  
  
"You've done that a lot lately. It's not like you." Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she took in his less than presentable appearance. She shook her head. "The poor girl sounded terrified. And do you have any idea what she'll tell her family about it? Her friends? Everyone we know will be talking about us as if--"  
  
"They already are, Mother." The stricken look on her face made him wince. "Me, at any rate," he amended. "Cecily's already convinced everyone that I tried to commit suicide over her."  
  
"I see." She clutched at her skirts. "Did you?"  
  
"What? No! If you think I'd off myself over that stuck-up bint--"  
  
"William!"  
  
"Well, she _is_, Mama. Do you know what she told me the other night? Before I left her party?" His mother remained silent, waiting as he replayed that night in his head. But it was overlayed with a fresher memory -- another night, another confession, another woman speaking those words before storming off in her righteous anger. The sting had yet to wear off of that one, but not because of the words themselves; because of the truth behind them. Spike swallowed. "She said that I'm beneath her."  
  
Mother's eyes widened. Then her eyebrows knit together in fury as she sprang from her chair. "How _dare_ she?" Spike stood back as she began to pace. "Stupid girl! Just because your father made an honest fortune through hard work ... Do you know that her great grandfather won her family's fortune at the poker table? Beneath _her_? She has no idea what --" She stopped, noticing him watching her, an eyebrow quirked in bemusement. "But that's not the point," she said, smoothing the front of her skirt.  
  
"What is the point, Mother?"  
  
She seemed to consider this, then she sighed. "A broken heart is no excuse to hurt a woman, no matter how superior she may believe herself to be. Really, William, you _know_ this."  
  
Spike dropped his head and stared at a knot in the pine floor, unable to look her in the eye. "Yeah," he said. "I know." Bugger. Guilt hurt even more as a human. At least when he was dead he didn't have to deal with this weight on his chest, pressing on his lungs and making it almost impossible to breathe. "I ... Excuse me." Without giving his mother a chance to protest, he fled from the room. He made it as far as the stairs before he collapsed. Sitting on the steps, he put his head between his knees and fought to slow his breathing.  
  
God, what kind of selfish son of a bitch was he, even with the soul? If this _was_ real ... if he really had been given a second chance? He could fix everything. Undo it all, all the pain and chaos and death he'd sown across the ages ... he could take it all back. Even what he'd done to her. Not just what happened in the bathroom -- all of it. All of the torment he'd caused her and her friends. He could make sure none of it ever happened.  
  
Couldn't he?  
  
_I believe in you, Spike._  
  
"Yes, but for what, Love? For this?"  
  
Someone rapped on the door. Spike scooted up a few steps, out of view of the entryway, expecting Mrs. Stanley to take care of it. When the knock sounded again, Spike called her name. She didn't answer. With a sigh, Spike got to his feet, took a deep breath to steady himself, and went to answer the door.  
  
"It seems that someone isn't handling his first hangover very well," Charlie said at the sight of him.  
  
"Not hung over," said Spike. "Just ... had a bad morning, is all."  
  
Charlie opened up his pocket watch and raised his eyebrows. "Bad afternoon, you mean."  
  
"Whatever." Spike stood back and waved him inside.  
  
"I saw Miss Addams in the park, surrounded by her entourage. She was spilling dramatic tears and cursing your name." Spike opened his mouth to explain, but Charlie cut him off. "You can tell me about that later. After you've told me just what the bloody hell happened to us last night."  
  
Spike rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Not now, Charlie."  
  
"Yes, _now_. I'm not leaving here until you've explained a few things to me. Such as why there are _vampires_ roaming the streets of London and how you happen to know so much about them. And, by the by, when exactly did prim little William, the Bloody Awful Poet, get replaced with the swearing, whiskey swilling, William the Too Bloody Confident For His Own Good?"  
  
"Or Spike, for short."  
  
"Yes, that's fitting," Charlie said, his deadpan expression belying his sarcasm.  
  
The corners of Spike's mouth quirked up as he motioned for Charlie to follow him. "Upstairs. Don't want to disturb Mother."  
  
"Don't want to frighten her out of her gourd, you mean."  
  
"That too."  
  
"And while you're at it, you can also tell me what this has all got to do with that woman at the pub."  
  
Spike paused on the stairs and turned to look at Charlie. "What makes you so sure this has anything to do with her?"  
  
Charlie rolled his eyes. "William, with you it's always about a woman. I trust at least that much about you hasn't changed. Speaking of which, who is Buffy?"  
  
Spike's eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear that name?"  
  
"I ran into Dr. Comfrey this morning. He mentioned that you kept calling that name when you were in hospital. Who is she?"  
  
Spike continued up the stairs. "You wouldn't know her. She's not from around here."  
  
"I should think not. With a name like that she's got to be an American."  
  
Spike smirked in spite of himself as he led Charlie to his sitting room. As Charlie settled by the fireplace, Spike paced the room, scratching the back of his head. Where to start and how much to tell were two excellent questions, neither of which he quite knew how to answer. He should probably make something up. But there were some people he just couldn't lie convincingly to, and Charlie was one of them. 'Sides, he obviously wouldn't stop asking questions. Spike scrubbed a hand over his face and turned to regard his old friend. Charlie would no doubt think him a complete nutter, but at least he could be counted on not to turn him in for it.  
  
Charlie regarded him in turn, wide-eyed and expectant. "Well?"  
  
_Nothing to lose by going for it, Mate_. Spike took his seat across from Charlie and leaned forward, elbows on knees, the better to look him in the eye. "I died in that stable, Charlie."  
  
Charlie rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair. "If you're going to be morose and philisophical --"  
  
"Do you want to hear this or not?"  
  
Charlie studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Give me a moment," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out his flask and took a swallow. "Now. You've got my utmost attention. Please continue."  
  
Continue he did. Charlie remained impassive as Spike outlined his whole life story -- or at least the Cliff's Notes version -- his only reaction taking a pull on his flask at the more disturbing bits. When he was done they sat in silence, neither wanting much to look the other in the eye.  
  
"Well," Charlie said at last. "That's quite the dilemma you've got there."  
  
"Tell me about it." Spike got up and crossed to the window, where the afternoon sun spilled into the room. He closed his eyes and savored the feel of it on his skin. It felt good, he had to admit. Still, it didn't compare with her touch.  
  
"If you don't mind my asking, what happened to me on your first sojourn through life as a vampire?"  
  
Spike glanced at him. "I killed you. Kept your flask as a souvenir."  
  
Charlie considered the flask in his hand, then replaced it inside his coat. "Well. In that case I vote that you don't get turned again."  
  
"It's not that simple."  
  
"Of course it is! You're not dead, so ... don't die. What could be simpler?" Charlie looked proud of his solution, but his expression quickly changed to one of sympathy. "I suppose that does mean you'll never see this Buffy again ... but there'll be other girls. I think Cecily's beginning to come around, for one. A woman doesn't cry like that over a man she cares nothing for."  
  
Spike rested his head against the window. "Have you not heard a word I said about her?"  
  
"I heard you. I'm only trying to be reasonable."  
  
"This _defies_ reason." Spike straightened, went back to his chair, flopped down and stared into the fire. "Ever been in love, Charlie? I don't mean longing for a girl from across the room, or even courting her and deciding she's a good match to share your life with. Or your bed. I'm talking about the kind that changes you, tears you down until you're less than nothing and then rebuilds you bit by bit into something you never dreamed you could be. Something better. The kind that gives you the strength to do whatever needs be done to make things better. Better for her."  
  
"And you said you'd given up poetry."  
  
"Don't mock this, Charlie."  
  
Charlie sighed and straightened in his chair. "I'm not. This all sounds terribly romantic. But William, forgive my bluntness, but it sounds as if there is little hope of this woman ever loving you."  
  
"That's not the point."  
  
"Isn't it? You're talking about throwing your life away for some fantasy bird. I think I make a very good point!"  
  
Spike gritted his teeth. "She's not a fantasy."  
  
"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Charlie took a deep breath and leaned forward. "William, I care for you like a brother. Believe me, I am not taking this lightly. But what you told me ... it simply isn't possible. Have you even considered the possibility that you dreamed this girl? This other life?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well then--"  
  
"Charlie." When Charlie met Spike's eyes, he continued. "Before last night you'd have also told me the existence of vampires was impossible."  
  
Charlie pursed his lips and nodded. "Touché." He stood up and tugged at the hem of his coat. "William, I don't mean to be indelicate. But supposing this Buffy is real -- or, will be someday -- from what you've told me, it sounds as though she might be better off without you."  
  
Ow. That stung beyond belief. Couldn't argue with it, though. Even so, Spike shook his head. "It's more complicated than that!" He sprung from his chair and began to pace. "I have done unspeakable things. I haven't told you the half of it. Some of them, yeah, I even did to her." His eyes burned. He squeezed them shut and rubbed them with the heel of his hand. "But I did some good too," he said once he'd composed himself. "I helped her. I _saved_ her! What if ... what if I'm not there and she ..." He stopped as the possibilities hit him, each one a stake to the heart. "And it's more than that. She's the Slayer. Each Slayer dies, the next one rises. Two of them died by my hand. What if the whole line gets buggered up now? What if she never gets chosen?"  
  
"What if she gets to be a normal girl and live her life without the horrors you described?"  
  
Spike hung his head. He didn't bother to fight the sob that forced its way out of his chest.  
  
Charlie shuffled his feet. "William, I ..." He cleared his throat. "We're probably making this out to be much worse than it is. You're but one man. A good man, but, well, you can't possibly be that important in the grand scheme of things. There are hundreds, _thousands_ of other factors that will affect that girl's life. Assuming she even exists."  
  
Spike sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Yeah."  
  
Charlie moved to stand before him. "My advice? Live your life. Just be _William_. He's really not that bad of a chap. I myself am quite fond of him."  
  
Spike managed a smile.   
  
Charlie sighed. "I hate to leave you in this state, but there is a meeting I must attend."  
  
"Right." Spike nodded. "Go on, then. I'll be fine. Won't do anything rash."  
  
"You promise?"  
  
"Cross my heart."  
  
"All right, then." Charlie turned to leave, then paused. "You know, you really should try your hand at prose for a change and write all of this down. The future you described is a damn sight more entertaining than anything that Wells fellow ever came up with."  
  
"Yeah, maybe," said Spike. "Thanks, Charlie."  
  
"My pleasure," Charlie said, then he showed himself out.  
  
Spike just stood there for a long while after Charlie left, willing himself not to think. Thinking hurt too much. Gradually he became aware that his eyes still burned, and his face felt sticky. He dragged into his bedroom and over to the basin. He'd wash his face, then crawl back into bed and pull the covers over his head and pray to wake up back in Xander's closet and find that this entire week had been one long nightmare. Or even in chains in Buffy's basement. Hell, he'd even settle for the ruddy _school_ basement. Anywhere but here. He trudged to the washbasin, emptied the pitcher into it, and splashed the cool water in his face.  
  
"Spike."  
  
He froze. "Buffy?"  
  
"Spike, _please!_"  
  
He raised his head. Magic mirror time again. He could see her, kneeling on a dirt floor. She looked battered and war-torn. He could see himself, too. Not William's reflection, but his true self, bloodied and beaten, draped across her lap in a cruel parody of pieta. All around them were bodies in black robes. Unconscious or dead, he couldn't tell.  
  
He himself looked dead to the world. She took his head in her hands, gave it a shake. "You have to wake _up!_"  
  
He touched his fingertips to the mirror. "I'm trying, Love. I don't know how."  
  
She lowered her face until her forehead rested on his. "Please?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I need you, Spike."  
  
"Buffy," he breathed. Then something moved out of the shadows behind her. What little light penetrated the darkness made its white skin gleam as it raised a clawed hand to strike. "Buffy!" Spike screamed, pounding on the mirror. "Behind you!" But she didn't hear, and she didn't see it moving in for the kill. He banged against the mirror with both fists, shattering it beneath them. Shards of glass rained down, revealing nothing but a smooth, blank wall behind.   
  
Spike sunk to his knees, the washstand the only thing keeping him upright. "No." Something hot and sticky ran down his arms. His hands were bleeding. He plunged them into the basin and watched red ribbons float and swirl, making shapes in the water.  
  
_I killed her._  
  
That thing had been raised by his blood. She'd been too wrapped up, too focused on him, his bloody useless _corpse_, to see it coming.  
  
"NO!" He shoved the washstand over, and the basin shattered on the floor, splashing blood and water everywhere. Struggling to stand, he grabbed the pitcher and threw it against the wall where it made a satisfying crash. "Wake up!" he shouted. He ran to the desk, shoved all of the papers and books and trinkets onto the floor. "Wake the hell up, you stupid!" He slammed his head on the desk. "Bloody!" Did it again. "Buggering!" Punched himself in the face. "Son of a!" Again. "Bitch!"  
  
The door flew open, and Mother and Mrs. Stanley rushed in. "Good heavens!" Mrs. Stanley exclaimed. "Master William, what's gotten into you?"  
  
Mother grabbed his face in her hands. "You're bleeding!" She guided him to the bed. "Hand me those towels," she ordered Mrs. Stanley as she forced him to sit. "My dear, what have you done to yourself?"  
  
"Doesn't matter," he said as she pressed a towel to his nose. "S' too late. Nothing I do matters now."  
  
"_What_ doesn't matter? Son, _please!_ Tell me what is happening to you!"  
  
Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her. "I can't wake up."  
  
"William, you _are_ awake!"  
  
Spike laughed. He reached up to caress his mother's face, then pulled her down to kiss her forehead. "Love you, Mama," he whispered.  
  
"William?"  
  
"I'm sorry." He gently pushed her aside; then he ran. Out of his room, down the stairs, and out of the house. He kept running. Didn't know where. Didn't care. He followed the Thames and ignored the looks he got from passing strangers. When he couldn't run anymore he walked. Aimlessly, weaving up and down side streets. At some point he registered that the sun had gone down. He didn't care. Didn't matter. None of it was real.  
  
Maybe ... maybe _that_ wasn't real. All part of the mindfuck. Or maybe he saw it wrong. He'd broken the glass before he saw what really happened. She could've been fast enough. Strong enough. This was _Buffy._ The girl was hard to kill.  
  
_Sure. It's only happened twice so far. Just because you couldn't ever do it ..._  
  
Spike stopped. He swallowed, blanching at the taste of blood. He wiped his hand under his nose and it came away bloody. 'Course, his hands had bled too, ran up his arms and soaked his sleeves with it. Christ, he was a mess.  
  
He brought his hand to his mouth and took a taste. Swished it around in his mouth and held it there. It was real as any blood he'd ever tasted. He grimaced and spit it out.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
"FUCK!"  
  
A woman passing by gasped, and her companion shot daggers at Spike. He answered back with a two-finger salute, and they hurried the hell away from him.  
  
Spike ran a hand over his face. What the hell to do now? No use fighting it, this place was real enough. And if it was real ... then maybe he _could_ change the course of history. Maybe he could save her. From this death, and the ones that came before ... maybe he could save her from ever being the Slayer. Just like Charlie said. All he'd have to do was go on living his life. And it didn't have to be a bad life. Maybe Charlie was on to something with that book idea. He'd been to the future, he could blow Wells out of the ...  
  
Wells.   
  
Had he really said _Wells_?  
  
What should have sent him into a tailspin instead brought perfect clarity. "Charlie ..."  
  
A scream interrupted, high-pitched and piercing. Close, too. Spike's senses went on alert. He listened, but heard nothing more. Damned human hearing. He set off in the direction he thought it had come from. Up the street and around the corner and into--  
  
Dru.  
  
Her back was to him, but her form was unmistakeable, outlined in the darkness against a stack of crates. He slowed his approach. As he drew near, she turned with a snarl, yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.  
  
Spike stopped and squared his shoulders. "Drusilla."  
  
"It's you." Her features melted into human as she stepped out of the shadows and into the lamplight.  
  
"You remember?" He forced himself to stay put as she came to meet him.  
  
"Oh, yes. I remember. You tasted like ..." As she spoke, she reached out and ran a finger down the side of his face. Then she put it in her mouth, closing her eyes and moaning at the taste. Shit. He'd forgotten he was covered in blood. Unarmed, too. _Brilliant, Spike._ Dru pulled her finger out of her mouth and her face lit up. "Strawberries in mummy's garden."  
  
"Then why didn't you finish, Pet?"  
  
"He told me not to. Said you weren't for me."  
  
"Who did?"  
  
"Don't know his name. Said he was your friend. Said he was my _real_ daddy." She leaned in to lick the blood from his chin. Spike swallowed hard, but kept still. "Said you're not my wise, brave knight." Dru pulled back. "But he lied. Didn't he?"  
  
"Yeah, Love. He did."  
  
"Mine," she murmered as she leaned back to taste more blood that had dried on his lips. Then she kissed him. He went with it, opening his mouth to drink in her intoxicating, mad beauty. But even as he held his old love Spike let himself wonder, what if? What if he went into this with all of his memories intact, knowing what he knew? Would he be all that different from where he was when he decided to get back his soul? He _could_ do it again, endure the trials again. Then he could hide out, take himself out of the world for a century ... or maybe he could help. Help the Slayers. Then when the time came he could find her, and they could do it again without all the bullshit that came before. As he thought all this, Dru kissed a trail from his mouth to his neck. Her lips parted against his throat, and all thought came to a halt as he tilted his head back for her. But she pulled away.   
  
"No."  
  
Spike blinked. "Dru?"  
  
"No!" She stepped back. "He spoke the truth. You're not for me, never were." She shook her head, her face twisted into an angry pout. "You're meant for _her._"  
  
"Drusilla, please!" He reached out for her, but she shoved him, hard, knocking him down and sending him skidding across the street.  
  
"I'll not make you for her," she said.  
  
Spike winced as he pushed up onto his elbows. "Dru --" A hansom cab drove between them, and he waited for it to go by. When it passed, she was gone.   
  
He struggled to his feet, stood there a moment rubbing the back of his head. Defeated, he turned to go home; but as he did something caught his eye, a glint of white amid the crates where she'd first stood. Spike felt his stomach turn as he went to confirm his fears. Hidden in the stack was a little girl, no more than eight, plump and pretty. And dead. With a trembling hand Spike reached down and tilted her face up to get a better look.   
  
He knew the face. It was one of the thousands that had haunted him since he'd won back his soul.  
  
He staggered back as images of himself and Dru luring her into the alley with promises of dollies and candy gave way in his memory to flashes of Drusilla laughing and applauding as he made this little girl scream.  
  
His stomach turned again, and he dropped to his hands and knees and emptied it onto the street. Then he stood up, wiped his mouth, and turned in the direction of home.  
  
It all made sense, now. He knew what he had to do.  
  
***  
  
TBC 


	6. Chapter 6

Title: That I May Cease To Be  
  
by cousinjean  
  
************  
PART SIX  
************  
  
He couldn't go home. He'd said his goodbye; going back would only make things harder. Couldn't check into a respectable hotel either, not in his condition. So he found a brothel, where they gave him a room and some spare clothes, took his money, and didn't ask any questions.   
  
First order of business, clean himself up. Wouldn't do to go in smelling like blood. After that he slipped a girl an extra twenty quid to fetch him any spare wood she could find, along with a knife.   
  
At dawn he got dressed. The clothes they'd provided were a little big, but that was all the better to hide his new stakes.   
  
Then it was time to go to church.  
  
He stood on the church's front steps, watching the old city come to life as his fellow Londoners woke up and began their day, completely unaware of the war he was about to wage. On his way out of the brothel he'd nicked a bottle of gin. He pulled it out of his pocket, took a good long drink, then poured out the rest. Inside he refilled it with holy water. Then he ransacked the vacant church for more weapons. Crosses, rosaries, communion wafers -- he loaded his pockets, tucked what he could in his waistband.   
  
Of course, his best weapons would be daylight, and the element of surprise. Fortunately he had both on his side for a change.  
  
He knew where they slept. Darla found a spot she liked -- usually some highfaluting place with room service and a good view -- and they all stuck with it until it stopped being safe. Not too hard to rack his brain and remember where they'd been staying in those first weeks after he'd turned, before he pissed off half the city and forced his little family to flee London and go underground.  
  
Family. He'd never stopped thinking of them like that. Not even after they all broke up, not even as he longed to be part of Buffy's family. Not even now, when he was nothing more to them than a candy wrapper. Though there'd never really been any love lost between him and Darla. Taking her out wouldn't be a problem. Angel -- Angelus -- soul or no soul, no matter how much of a right bastard he could be, there was always a small part of Spike that looked up to the elder vampire, craved his respect. 'Course, all he really had to do was consider how fucked up Buffy had been and all of the myriad ways the blame could be laid at Angel's feet, and it wasn't too hard to work up a healthy dose of murderous rage.  
  
Drusilla was a different matter. Even as he'd pressed the stake to her breast to prove a point to Buffy, he hadn't intended to harm her. Didn't want to. The thought of a world without Drusilla in it made him want to heave. But he thought of the little girl in the alley, and thousands more like her who would all die if he allowed Dru to live. There was no choice, really.  
  
Standing outside their hotel room, Spike shook off all doubt and tried the door. Locked. Bugger. Wouldn't be a problem for Spike the vampire, he'd just kick the door open and go bursting in; but William the human would only succeed in hurting himself. This William, however, still had Spike's lockpicking skills.  
  
He fumbled with the lock a few times, thanks to his trembling hands. But he got it open, quietly, and let himself inside. Angelus and Darla slept on the floor beside the fire, in various states of undress. They both looked well sated, and if he knew them it meant they were both deeply asleep. Neither was the type to cuddle, and so they lay apart from each other. That could work to Spike's advantage.  
  
Drusilla lay curled up in the middle of the big bed, clutching a porcelain doll to her chest. She looked the picture of innocence. As he took a step forward, she let out a whimper and he froze. She whimpered again. A nightmare. She had a lot of them in the early days. Hell, it had taken her a good twenty years after he'd first met her to stop having them regularly, and she still had them on occasion clear up until she'd left him. He remembered waking and pulling her to him, holding her close and whispering soothing promises in her ear until she calmed down. As much as he hated Angel for scarring Buffy, he hated Angelus far more for the permanent damage he'd done to Dru.  
  
He fought the urge to go to her now. God, how was he gonna do this? Kill her? She'd been his lover, his _partner_, his --  
  
_Buffy did it._  
  
Spike closed his eyes a moment. Then he opened them and looked at Angelus. He remembered that morning at the mansion. He'd gotten what he wanted and fled, but not before noting that Buffy fought a losing battle. Had he stayed, helped her, killed Angel himself, how might the following years have gone for her? Would she have been able to let herself love again? Spike's shoulders shook in a single, silent laugh. Wasn't he as much to blame, then, as Angel for the suffering that followed? But she had done it. She loved Angel, desperately, and she had plunged the sword through him and sent him to hell to save the world.  
  
Didn't he owe her the same courtesy?  
  
A pair of heavily curtained French doors stood directly across from him. They led out onto a balcony. Spike remembered that they'd chosen this room because of its eastern view, which placed the balcony in shadow in the afternoon. But mornings were a different story.  
  
Spike strode to the doors and opened them. Sunlight blanketed him and the floor behind. It stopped mere inches from Darla's curled fingers. Inconvenient, that. Well, at least he had someplace to run. He pulled out a stake and a cross as he approached the sleeping couple. Ideally he'd do Angelus first, but he lay on his side and Darla blocked the way to his heart. Her first, then. He raised the stake and took aim.  
  
"No!" Drusilla shouted.   
  
Freezing, Spike looked at her. Still asleep. Still dreaming. He blew out a sigh, then went to raise the stake again. Darla's eyes flew open and her hand caught his wrist. The stake clattered to the floor.   
  
"Wh--glmph!" She gagged on the cross that Spike shoved in her mouth. Didn't stop her muffled screams, though, and she clawed at his arm, shredding linen and skin and drawing blood. Angelus began to stir. Wasting no time, Spike grabbed a fistful of Darla's hair and dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the sunlight.  
  
Angelus jumped to his feet and Dru shot upright in bed just in time to see Darla flare up. Spike jumped away from her, further into the sunlight, as she smoldered away to nothing. Angelus's eyes narrowed -- wait, no. Eye. A black leather patch covered the one Spike had punctured at their last meeting. "You," he snarled.  
  
"Grandmother!" Dru cried.  
  
"Sorry, Pet," Spike told her.  
  
"You don't know what sorry is," said Angelus, "but you're about to find out."  
  
"Yeah?" Spike squared his shoulders. "Why don't you c'mere and show me?"  
  
"That light won't last forever. And I got all the time in the world."  
  
"It's all wrong!" shouted Dru. She stood and started pacing, clawing at her nightgown. "It's all come apart. It's Daddy's game and we're all lost!"  
  
"Daddy's right here, Precious," said Angelus. "I won't let him hurt you."  
  
"No!" She shook her head. "Can't stop it. Can't beat it. All it wants is to bash and burn until all that's left is pixie dust and darkness. Just like in the beginning."  
  
"What does?" Angelus pointed at Spike. "Him?"  
  
She stopped pacing, and laughed. Then she locked eyes with Spike. "You know. It whispered its name in your ear as you cried in the dark place."  
  
Spike stared at her in confusion. "What ..." Then it dawned on him. Of course. He swallowed. "From beneath you ..."  
  
Again, Dru laughed, like he'd just told her favorite joke and screwed up the punchline. "No, my sweet, silly Spike." He blinked at the mention of his name. Dru walked to the edge of the shadows and leaned forward as far as she dared. "From beneath _you._" Swaying a little from side to side, she began to hum as her eyes zigged and zagged their way down Spike's body. When they landed on the ashes at Spike's feet, her face twisted in rage. She let out a shriek and lunged at him.   
  
"Dru, no!" Angelus grabbed for her too late. Spike staggered back as her hands closed around his throat. A halo of flame engulfed her and burned his skin. She opened her mouth in an anguished scream, but from it shot only flame. Instinctively, Spike grabbed hold of her soulders to push her out of the light. She crumbled in his grasp.  
  
Spike stared at his ash coated hands, her silent cry still ringing in his ears.. He barely had time to register what happened before a hand grabbed his collar and flung him back into the room. He crashed into a table, knocking it over and splintering it beneath him.   
  
Angelus charged, casting off the blanket he'd wrapped around himself. Spike grabbed hold of a broken table leg and forced himself to stand. Angelus kicked it from his hand and landed a punch to Spike's nose. He staggered back, but Angelus caught him by the throat, lifted him up. He roared, full of rage, and threw Spike at the door. Spike crashed through it and bounced off the opposite wall, landing in a heap in the hallway, the wind knocked out of him.  
  
_Run_, his mind screamed at him, but before he could recover Angelus was on him again. "You killed both my women," Angelus said as he dragged Spike back inside. "For that I think I'll kill you twice." Spike struggled. He punched, kicked and clawed, even bit; but Angelus overpowered him, pushing Spike down on the bed and tearing open his shirt to expose his neck. Angelus pinned him there with the weight of his whole body as he sunk his fangs into Spike's throat.  
  
Spike didn't cry out. Instead he channeled his pain and anger into getting a hand free. Reaching down to his pocket, his fingers closed on the first thing they touched. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how it hadn't broken in the fight. He yanked out the gin bottle and smashed it over Angelus's head. The vampire hollered and rolled off him as his drenched skin sizzled. Spike pulled out another stake, and with a scream he drove it home. Then he collapsed on the bed and lay there, panting and choking on dust and blood.  
  
He had just gotten his breath back under control when he heard a gasp from the doorway. Spike pushed himself up on his elbows, expecting to see a bellhop or a frightened neighbor. Instead he saw a horrified Charlie, taking in the state of the room.  
  
"William! I came to ... I followed ... my God. What have you done?"  
  
Spike sat up and wiped his nose and mouth on his sleeve. "Killed 'em all."  
  
"But ... who? Why?"  
  
"Vampires. Because it was the right thing to do. Sorry to disappoint you."  
  
"What do you --"  
  
"Oh, give it a rest. You're not Charlie."  
  
The other man looked genuinely hurt. "William ... I think I should take you home. You're not well."  
  
"No, I'm _not_ well. But I'm not crazy either, so don't bother denying it." Spike stood up. "You're the thing's been pulling my strings."  
  
Charlie just stared at him in shock. Then a grin broke out on his face and he began to laugh. "You'll have to pardon the anachronistic lingo, but, _duh_. And here I thought I'd put on such a good performance."   
  
"Well, you got sloppy."  
  
Charlie seemed to consider this as he crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb. "How so?"  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow. "H.G. Wells?" He snorted. "_The Time Machine_ won't be published for another fifteen years."  
  
"Damn." Charlie shrugged. "I've never really been one for the written word. I tend to leave that to the other side."   
  
"What happened to the real Charlie?"  
  
"You tell me. You're the one who killed him."  
  
"I ... but ..." Spike sighed. He looked down at the stake he still held in his hand. Something told him it wouldn't do a lick of good against this thing. He threw it on the floor.  
  
Charlie tsked at him. "Poor Spike. You really thought you could change things? Make a difference? Really, how many times must I tell you that you make no difference at all?"  
  
Spike looked around at the damaged room. He gestured to it, spreading his hands wide, and shrugged. "Then why? What's the sodding point?"  
  
"The point?" Charlie stood up and came into the room. "I'm evil. Pure evil, in fact. Must I really have a point? This has been _fun!_ You remember that, don't you? Causing misery and torment just for the hell of it?" He sighed. "You used to be so good at it, too. Now look at you. Snivelling about changing the world and giving the Slayer a better life. So bloodly predictable, too. You're a disgrace to demonkind."  
  
"I'm not --"  
  
"Not what? A demon?" Charlie laughed. "Maybe not here in dreamland, but believe me, old chap, in the real world an occasionally bumpy forehead and allergies to the sun and all things holy are still a permanent part of the package. You're _all_ demon. The soul doesn't change that. Just makes it inconvenient."  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow. "The real world?" He looked out the French doors at the city, then walked out onto the balcony. "So you're saying that this all really is just a dream?"  
  
"It's all the reality you're going to know. So you might as well get used to it."  
  
Spike turned to regard him. "Not planning to let me wake up, then. You must really need me out of the picture. Hey, here's a thought. Why not kill me?"  
  
"That wouldn't be nearly as entertaining, now would it?"  
  
"Right." Spike smiled. "Or maybe you just can't. Slayer won't let you."  
  
Charlie's turn to snort. "You really are confident that she gives a damn about you. Misplaced confidence, judging from what I've seen."  
  
"Mm. Maybe. 'Course, that _would_ explain all the dead minions I saw surrounding us both in the magic mirror. Speaking of which, maybe I'm not as deeply out of it as you'd like me to believe." Spike turned back to the balcony railing and leaned over. He was at least six stories up. High enough to do the job. "What's that they say about falling in your dreams? If you hit the bottom, you die?" He climbed up on the railing and turned around. "Wonder how that works if you're already dead."  
  
"Splendid!" Charlie smiled. "You know, I tried to get that Angel chap to off himself once. Not even your precious Slayer could talk him out of it." As he spoke, his stature shrunk and his features changed into a perfect likeness of Buffy. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him pleadingly. "Strong is _fighting_!" she cried. Then she burst out laughing and rolled her eyes. "God, can you _stand_ the melodrama?" She sighed and shook her head. "If it wasn't for the Powers and their stupid miracle snow ..." She glanced back at the dust covering the bed. "If only I could get you to do something like that for me in real life. Hey!" Her face lit up. "There's a thought. Maybe I could pit you two against each other. Shouldn't be too hard, what with your mutual seething hatred and all. Wouldn't it be cool if you staked each other? Poof! No more soulful vamps!" She grinned up at him sweetly.  
  
Spike smirked down at her. "Get buggered, bitch."  
  
"Ooh, sexy! Is that the kind of talk that got her to 'pry apart her dimpled knees' for you?"  
  
He refused to be goaded. "This some kinda reverse psychology? 'Cause you're not talking me down. 'Sides, like you said, it's all a dream. Can't hurt me to fall."  
  
She shrugged. "If you say so. But, trying to apply logic to the workings of the source of all chaos? Kinda silly if you ask me." She walked toward him. "Go on, Spike. Jump. You can do it." She stood beneath him and looked up, her face earnest. "I believe in you, Spike." Then she broke into a grin and backed away, giggling.  
  
"No," he said, "but she does. That's why you can't touch me."  
  
She stopped laughing, her face ugly in its hatred. "We're not finished."  
  
Spike laughed. "We're really not."  
  
With that, he leaned back. Sunlight bathed him for the last time as he fell, eyes open, watching the world rush up and away. Then it all went white, washed out in a blinding light, and then darkness, and cold, and hard ground beneath him.  
  
Gradually, he became aware of her face hovering over his. "No." He could barely find his voice.   
  
"Spike ..."  
  
He summoned every remaining ounce of strength to scoot away, gritting his teeth against the pain that spasmed through his body. "Leave me alone. You can't ... can't touch me. Can't hurt me anymore. Can't make me--"  
  
Her lips covered his. Soft, warm, tender lips that were real and solid and oh God Buffy was here and she was real and she was kissing him. Energy shot through him and he raised a hand to tangle in her hair and pull her closer, to savor the taste of her.   
  
She tasted like home.  
  
"Don't leave me again," she whispered as she pulled away.  
  
He couldn't find words. He could only shake his head.  
  
"Good." Her hand stroked his cheek. "Can you walk?"  
  
"Think so."  
  
She nodded. "Everybody's waiting. I sent them on out of here after the first fight went down. They're probably starting to worry."  
  
"First ..." He looked around, saw the minions' bodies just like in his vision. Then he noticed how beat up she looked. "You're hurt."  
  
She offered him a weak smile. "Same to you."   
  
"That thing ... they used me to raise it. I saw it, saw it attack you." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Thought it killed you."  
  
"Tried to. Didn't."  
  
His turn to smile. "Shoulda known." He tried to push himself up to sitting. She had to help him. "Buffy, I ... I wanted to ... God. I tried to change it --""Change what?"  
  
"_Everything!_" He looked around the cavern, as if the words he was looking for might be hidden in its shadows and crevaces. "I thought I had a chance to undo it all. To fix it so you never had to be the Slayer, and so that I never --"  
  
"Spike, look at me."  
  
He raised his eyes to meet hers.   
  
"You can't change the past," she said, smoothing back his hair. "We just have to figure out how to live with it."  
  
He nodded, then blinked and tilted his head as he replayed what she'd said. "We?"  
  
She held his eyes a moment, saying nothing. Then her lip trembled, ever so slightly, and she looked away. "We should get going." She got to her feet and then helped him to his, wrapping her arms around him to support his weight.  
  
"Buffy."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I know I'm pretty useless at the moment, but I want you to know ... if there's anything you need from me, anything at all ..."  
  
She stopped walking. Slowly, she looked up at him.   
  
"You." Her voice held a slight tremor. "I need you, Spike."  
  
Spike just stared at her, dumbfounded. Her face betrayed about a dozen emotions, not the least of which was sincerity. He choked out something halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he had to lean on her for a moment, bury his face in her hair until he got himself under control. When he felt he could look at her again without blubbering like the sentimental git that he was, he raised up and met her eyes, wet with unshed tears.   
  
"You have me," he told her.  
  
"Yeah," She smiled. "I do."  
  
***  
  
The End  
  
Notes: I stole "Get buggered, bitch" from _Dancing Lessons_. I'm pretty sure it was one of alkibiadhs's chapters. adjrun gets special thanks for giving my brain a good kickstart when I got stuck on the ending after I was blown away and severely intimidated by ME's version of the Spuffy reunion. Thanks also to hold_that_thought, little_bit and Fiona for their harrassment encouragement. It's easier to stay motivated when you know people are waiting impatiently for the next part and offering to rough up your beta readers if that'll hurry up the process. And yet more thanks to my beta readers for coming through without any of said roughing up, and for helping me make it better.  
  
Hope you enjoyed it. --cj 


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